Breathing
by RPGgirl514
Summary: "He had stuck by her side for nine years, and she didn't even have the manners to say goodbye?" Varric realizes just how much he's lost when Hawke flees Kirkwall. Post-DA2. F!Hawke/Varric.


**Author's note: Yay! My first F!Hawke/Varric story. It truly is my favorite pairing from DA2. Keep an eye out for the LOTR and Florence + the Machine references. Story title taken from Jason Derulo's song "Breathing," the lyrics of which inspired the story. I'm still not happy with the ending, so any constructive criticism would be welcomed. Happy reading!**

_Dear Hawke,_

Varric sighed and set down his quill, crumpling the parchment bearing those two simple words in his fist. She was the easiest person to talk to, but when he tried to write her a letter all he could think about were the words he couldn't – shouldn't – say to her. Like "I miss your smile" and "I want to hump like nugs."

Because those just weren't things one said to the Champion of Kirkwall.

With a disgusted snort, Varric tossed the crumpled page into the fire. His palatial suite looked the same as it always had; hell, the Hanged Man itself remained the same as ever. Only the outside of the pub had changed. Weeks had passed since Knight-Commander Meredith's complete meltdown. The Gallows was in shambles while the remaining templars tried to piece together a new order. Most of the mages had escaped or been killed, while those who remained had gone into hiding around the city. Varric knew at least one room of the Hanged Man was occupied by a group of terrified apostates. The city guard had its hands full combing through the wreckage of the Chantry, looking for bodies.

The Hanged Man, a bastion through Kirkwall's hard times, had become a rallying point for more and more citizens as they tried to rebuild their homes in the aftermath of the chaos. Few knew the details of what had really happened in the Gallows that fateful night, but most were willing to buy a certain dwarf a drink or two to hear the real story. The pub had also entertained the occasional heretic, trying to marshal support for a coup on various other Circles of Magi. These were unceremoniously dumped in the alley behind the building and usually taken care of by the Carta or the Coterie.

Hawke had fled the city the following day, of course. She had vanished like a wisp of smoke, along with Isabela, Merrill, and Anders. The pirate was born to run; it was in her blood. The two mages had fled more out of cautious necessity than anything else. And of course, the rebellion had been pinned entirely on Hawke's head, regardless of the roles played by Anders, Meredith, Orsino, and others.

Varric wasn't entirely sure they had all left together, but it was inconsequential. Wherever Hawke had gone, she was now out of Varric's reach. He would never have admitted it, but he had been slightly hurt to discover Hawke had left without even saying goodbye. He had thought they were at least close enough friends for that. Varric had tried to shrug it off; Hawke was quicksilver, after all. But as the weeks went on, he realized that he was actually rather angry about the whole thing.

He had stuck by her side for nine years, and she didn't even have the manners to say goodbye?

_Bitch. _Varric shook his head. He didn't _really_ think Hawke was a bitch. She was beautiful, witty, smart, and sarcastic, but definitely not a bitch.

She had disappeared like this once before, after their return from the debacle in the Deep Roads. Like the insensitive fool he was, Varric had put his foot in his mouth. He had been truly sorry about Bethany's death – Sunshine hadn't deserved such an inglorious end. Was there even a right way to go about consoling someone who had lost both their siblings scarcely a year apart? Varric had always hidden his grief behind stories, sarcasm and ale. Hawke had shrugged off his callous comments and gone home. He neither saw nor heard from her for six months, until one night she knocked on his door and asked if he was up for a game of Wicked Grace.

"_Hawke!" Whoever he had expected to find at his door, it was not she._

_She had laughed. "Did you miss me?"_

_Varric had grinned in response. "Only when I'm breathing, Hawke."_

Why was he even thinking of writing her a letter? After the Deep Roads, he had sent several letters, all of which went unanswered. Varric cursed himself and his soft heart. It wasn't as if she had left a forwarding address. _ "Oh, by the way, I'm on the run from the templars and the Chantry, but I'll be in Val Royeaux if you need to get a letter to me." _Right. Grumbling to himself, he pulled a fresh sheet of parchment towards him.

_Dear Hawke,_

"I do hope you're not planning on expropriating the Hanged Man again," a strong female voice said casually from the doorway. Varric started violently and overturned his ink bottle.

"Aveline!" he said, putting an ink-stained hand over his heart, which was thundering like a stampeding bronto in his chest. "Don't sneak up on me like that." He righted the ink bottle and wiped off the excess ink.

The guard-captain smirked. "Sorry. How have things been? I've had my hands full in Hightown; this is the first day I could get away."

"Oh, you know, the usual," Varric said, waving his hand dismissively. "Kirkwall doesn't know its ass from its head these days."

"You can say that again," Aveline said. Her expression turned serious. "Varric, I need a favor."

"Now, Aveline, I've told you before that guard life is not for me," Varric said.

"No, of course not," Aveline said. "I need you to break into Hawke's estate."

"What?" Varric yelped. "Break into – are you mad?"

"I certainly hope not," Aveline said. "In the aftermath of . . . everything, I need proof that the estate belongs to Hawke." She didn't quite meet Varric's eyes.

Varric's eyes narrowed. "Don't copies of the deeds stay in the Viscount's Keep?"

"Well, yes," Aveline said, her eyes betraying her. "But the original is in Hawke's estate, most likely in her study, and there's been some doubt as to – oh, Varric, can you simply trust me on this?"

Varric folded his arms. "I'm not calling you a liar, but you're lying to me, Aveline," he said. "What am I walking into here? Last time I entered an estate in Hightown unprepared, I ended up killing my own brother. I won't do that again. Like the Orlesians say, 'fool me once, shame on me. Fool me twice –'"

"'Shame on you,'" Aveline finished. "Remember, I was an Orlesian's daughter. Trust me on this one, Varric. I would never lead you into an ambush."

"Not knowingly, anyway," Varric conceded. "Alright, I'll do it. What am I looking for again?"

"Er –"

"Oh, yes, the 'deed,'" Varric said with an exaggerated wink. "And I'll know it when I see it?"

A small smile played at Aveline's lips. "Yes, I have no doubt that you will."

Varric waited until nightfall to make his way to Darktown. Hawke's estate had been a source of fascination and suspicion since the Champion's abrupt departure, and Varric was loathe to draw that attention onto himself. After all, one did not simply break in the Champion's front door. Instead, Varric remembered all those years ago when he had helped Hawke and Bethany – oh, Maker, _Bethany_ – sneak in via the cellar. Of course, they had had a key back then, but Varric would figure that part out when the time came.

As Varric approached the cellar entrance, he paused. The clinic to his right was boarded up and the lanterns that had once merrily lit its entrance were extinguished. Varric hadn't been overly fond of Blondie, but it was an eerie feeling to see such a defining part of his last ten years in Kirkwall just . . . gone. Struck by a sudden idea, Varric took down one of the lanterns and lit the wick inside. Giving the abandoned clinic one last look, he grimly returned to the task at hand. To his surprise, the padlock that secured the cellar hung askew, the hasp unfastened. A wary trepidation tingled in the base of his stomach. He unshouldered Bianca, still holding the lantern, and entered the cellar.

The cool dank air clung to his face. It was dark as Rivain; Varric was glad for the light of the lantern. He could just make out the faint shadowy outlines of casks and bottles along the rough walls. There were fewer than he remembered, but then, Hawke had enjoyed the finer things left behind by her grandparents. Varric fondly recalled countless nights in this house, sharing wine and stories before the fireplace. The memories welled up unbidden – the reflection of the firelight upon her raven-dark hair, the sparkle in her piercing blue eyes that saw so much but never enough – Varric stopped himself. This was not the time to wax poetic about the one that got away.

He crossed the cellar and pushed open the door, revealing a set of steps leading up to the basement. Varric had spent a good amount of time down here as well; Hawke had refurbished the area to make it an ideal place to practice all manner of combat. The walls still bore marks from errant bolts when Varric had taught a laid-up Hawke how to use a crossbow. He chuckled at the memory. A floorboard creaked above him and he nearly dropped the lantern as he shifted Bianca. Varric gulped and tried to scold himself – he had fought dragons, by the Maker, and here he was getting jumpy over creaky floorboards. Then again, when he had fought said dragons, it had been at Hawke's side. Hawke had a knack for putting her companions at ease – perhaps because she was so good at killing things. The woman had even felled the Arishok in single combat.

_Focus, Varric, focus. _ It was her voice in his head. _ Just breathe._

He snorted softly and crossed the training arena to the stairs on the opposite side. These would take Varric to the first floor of the mansion itself. Something at the base of the steps caught his eye – a mechanism, almost completely hidden where the stair met the wall. Were he to put any significant weight on the stair, Varric was sure to be incinerated or worse. Knowing Hawke's gleeful propensity for pyromania, Varric would hazard a guess toward death by fire. Careful not to lean on the afflicted stair, the dwarf set down Bianca and the lantern and set to work dismantling the trap.

He nearly burned his fingers off when he heard another loud creak upstairs. Varric unhooked the last wire from the trap mechanism and gathered up the lantern and crossbow before hurrying up the stairs. The landing opened out into the estate's foyer. From his vantage point in the shadows, Varric peered through the open doorframe cater-corner, which gave him a dark but clear view into the main hall. He could barely see the base of the second-floor stairs, which he knew were adjacent to the study. Varric knew this house like most dwarves knew the Deep Roads, except with fewer darkspawn. He debated leaving the lantern behind and retrieving it upon his escape, but decided against it. There was no one else in the house; the only thing he needed to worry about was getting too close to the windows and attracting the notice of the templars, who patrolled the perimeter at all hours should the Champion return.

Varric found himself hugging the wall, walking toe to heel to avoid making noise, and almost laughed at himself. If there was no one else in the house with him, then why sneak around? As if to answer his question, a loud thump echoed from the second floor. It sounded like something moderately heavy had been dropped. Varric froze, his heart pounding in earnest. Creaky floorboards could be explained away in an old estate such as this, but not dropped objects. It reminded him uncomfortably of Bartrand's haunted estate, but then he had not been alone. It seemed like every memory Varric had of the past nine years had Hawke in it.

Varric strained his ears, listening for any more signs he was not the estate's only intruder, but silence reigned. He continued toward the study.

The sound of a door clicking shut seemed magnifed in the oppressive stillness. Varric snapped his head around and peered up at the second floor landing. The deed could wait. Varric climbed the stairs. Aveline's strange behavior back in his suite began to niggle at the back of his mind. What had she said?

"_Oh, yes, the 'deed.' I'll know it when I see it?"_

"_Yes, I have no doubt that you will."_

She had known something then, and Varric was still missing it now. The top landing was as quiet as the rest of the mansion. He took a steadying breath as he stood before the one room in which he had never set foot – Hawke's bedroom. It was a striking thought: he had even been in Leandra's room, a year after her death, when Hawke had finally been able to face clearing out her mother's personal effects. It had been an emotional task, and Varric had held his best friend in his arms as she quivered and sobbed. It was the only time he had ever seen Hawke cry.

He reached for the doorknob, trepidation high in his throat, and the door swung open. He felt like he had stepped into a dream. Hawke was there, _impossibly_ there, seated at her desk with her back to Varric. At the sound of the door opening, she turned in her chair and smiled.

"Now Varric, did you really think I would leave you without saying goodbye?"


End file.
